


Memories

by mechanicalUniverses



Series: Domestic Grimmons Adventures [4]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: AU, Childhood Memories, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Nostalgia, Singing, They just love each other a lot, Ukulele, married, yeehaw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 11:37:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14212302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanicalUniverses/pseuds/mechanicalUniverses
Summary: Some days, Grif indulges himself in the memories of his childhood.





	Memories

**Author's Note:**

> everyone with a logical brain in this fandom: this is so ooc, they would never act like this, they’re in the military for crying out loud  
> me, taking one earbud out of my ear: what

Some days, Grif indulges himself in the memories of his childhood. Even if a lot—most of it—was pretty shitty in his professional opinion, there were still some parts left from it that he had viciously protected so they wouldn’t be tainted by the rest of it. Like his ukulele.

Back at his home in Hawaii, he’d pull out his ukulele and play it when he and Kai would go to the beach to enjoy the cooling evening after a particularly hot day, or around a fire when he felt like making one, or when the house was too quiet and too big and he felt alone without Kai making some ruckus somewhere. Of course, those weren’t the sole times he played. Just the majority of the time.

But times like that were rare nowadays. So now he plays for a reason he can’t really put his finger on. Maybe he likes the way it sounds on a deeper level than just enjoying it. Maybe he likes the feel of the strings under his fingertips. Maybe plain old nostalgia really was just the reason.

Now he sits on a couch he had bought with his husband (his husband, his _husband_ ) with his ukulele tucked up against his chest, idly plucking at a few strings. Most of the melodies and notes from the songs he knew have drifted to the back of his head. Whenever one felt like resurfacing, he ended up spending hours picking through it, re-memorizing the sounds and notes all over again. Something about it was more gratifying than simply looking it up. But first, he had to find the one chord that would burst open that dam of memories.

He looks to a stand-alone bookshelf that stands across the room from him. The sunlight streaming in through the window dances on the glass of the few framed windows scattered about on it and highlights the faded covers of Simmons’ old books he insisted he still read. A widely varying assortment of trinkets and gifts adorn the whole thing. Grif sighs with fondness as he quietly looks at a photo of them at their wedding. It features himself and Simmons in the middle of a half-drunken dance—he’s dipping Simmons as far as he can, and Simmons is attempting to block the camera with his hand and failing. Grif’s moony-eyed expression is cut out partially by the edge of the photo, but Simmons’ glittering eyes and wide, joyful grin is on full display, frozen in time. It’s one of Grif’s favorite photos.

“What are you playing?”

He glances from the photos to where Simmons himself is leaning against the doorway, peering at him curiously. He’s wearing one of Grif’s flannels for some reason, which completely drowns his skinny frame in fabric, and his long fingers are wrapped around a large mug of coffee. His hair is all rumpled and messy since he’s shoved his glasses up into it. He looks like he’d just rolled out of bed. Grif is reminded of the incredible fact that this man in front of him is his handsome, incredible husband, and he feels his poor, hopeless heart do a triple backflip straight into a marathon at the sight.

“Nothing much. Why are you wearing my shirt?” Grif countered weakly, as if the image in front of him was not causing his heart to simultaneously leap out of his throat and do mental gymnastics through his body.

“I felt like it,” said Simmons nonchalantly. “They’re surprisingly comfortable. Plus, all of my shirts are dirty, anyway.”

“Like mine are any cleaner?” Grif retorted. “Aren’t you the one always bitching about them? Hypocrite.”

Simmons merely shrugs as he wanders over to the couch. He gently sets down the mug on the coffee table with his pinky underneath it like the huge fucking dweeb he is. Then he sits down on the couch and casually leans over to place a gentle kiss on the underside of Grif’s jaw. Grif couldn’t stop the crooked smile that forms even if he wanted to.

“Play for me?” Simmons murmurs without moving away, breath tickling Grif’s neck. Grif is only frozen for a second before he laughs through his nose and turns his head to press a quick kiss to Simmons’ crown. He smiles sleepily and butts his face into Grif’s shoulder.

“Sure,” Grif said softly. “What song?”

Simmons shrugs. Grif can feel the motion against his side. “You pick. I’ll like whatever it is.”

“I dunno, Simms, those are pretty high expectations. You sure you can’t give me something to work with?”

“You’ll be fine,” Simmons said dismissively, “but fine, whatever. Let’s see. Uh. Something... you can sing to.”

“Ugh.” Grif teasingly nudges Simmons’ side. “Seriously? That’s cheesy as hell.”

“You had the prime opportunity to pick something you liked! Like, it was literally right there, and you were too lazy to even do that. So no take-backs!”

“Ugh.”

“Besides.” Simmons huffs and leans a little more heavily against Grif. A satisfied smile curves his lips. “I like listening to your voice.”

Grif blinks in surprise. “Huh?”

“It’s not bad,” Simmons said simply. “Sort of—gruff? But I think it works for you.”

The tips of Grif’s ears and the nape of his neck heat up. “You sounds like Donut,” he said, embarrassed, as he scratched the back of his neck.

“Oh, shut the fuck up, are you gonna play or not?”

“Alright, alright, I’m goin’, keep your panties on.” Grif purposefully eyes Simmons’ bare chest appreciatively. “Or don’t. I wouldn’t object.”

Simmons rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

Grif laughs again and settles himself against the couch, letting his fingers fall across the strings without actually playing. He thumbs one carefully, unsure of where to start. This sort of thing just... Happens. He didn’t really decide when or what he started playing. Thankfully, Simmons doesn’t push him; he only lets out a deep breath, like he’s ready to go right back to sleep.

Grif curls his fingers and hesitates, just barely hovering his hand over the first note. “You sure you don’t just wanna sleep?” he asked. “‘Cause I’m totally down for just plain ol’ morning naps if you’re gonna just go back to sleep anyway.”

Simmons doesn’t answer immediately, which makes Grif think he’s somehow already nodded off. But then he mumbles, “Nah. I wanna listen. Keep going if I fall asleep.”

Grif nods, and his hand falls.

“ _Where I live, there are rainbows..._ ”

He starts by merely murmuring quietly, the notes honey-slow, quiet, soft. Simmons’ sleepy eyes slip shut once more as a spell begins to fall over them.

“ _With laughter of morning and starry nights_.”

Simmons’ breathing starts to even out. Grif allows himself to let his head carefully drop on top of Simmons’.

“ _Where I live..._ ”

The light from the sunlight is strung about in the air like gold hanging from a throat. The quiet background sounds of the appliances fade away, and then everything else follows suit until it’s just Grif, the warm sensation of Simmons, and the music whose notes suspend themselves in the sunlight.

“ _...in this place with who I love._ ”

He knows he’s straying from the actual song. But it felt right to sing it this way, adding his own twists and limericks to make it his own truth. Making his own memories.

Besides. It wasn’t like Simmons had to know.

He isn’t quite sure when it stops being “trying to remember the song” and starts becoming “play because you want Simmons to listen.” He plays one more song, or maybe ten, maybe for a few minutes, or maybe an hour. But at some point, his fingers stop moving, the sounds stop happening, and he simply is content with listening to Simmons’ even, slow breaths and the feeling of content and peace with his life.

They stay like that for a while, entwined with silence. But the quiet eventually begins to lift itself, like a huge, warm comforter being dragged off, exposing Grif to chilly drafts and cool floorboards. Grif sets the ukulele aside, presses his mouth to Simmons’ head once again, and closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! if you want to check it out, [this](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=nQe3LQQMHsQ) is a video of the song grif was playing (＊￣︶￣＊)  
> if you'd like to chat, just message me on [tumblr](http://scintillating-galaxias.tumblr.com/) or come find me on the rvb discord!


End file.
